


The Hunger Games: The Pawns

by CountLivin



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Quarter Quell, the hunger games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 21:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8913277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountLivin/pseuds/CountLivin
Summary: BEFORE I START, I HAVE TO SAY THAT NONE OF THIS BELONGS TO ME. I AM SIMPLY A FAN OF SUZANNE COLLINS'S WORK AND WOULD LIKE TO PUT MY OWN TWO CENTS INTO HER LEGACY AND HER WORLD.Honestly, do we even have to say that anymore? Isn't it just assumed?So, yes, this story is my take of what happened during the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, or what we like to call "The First Quarter Quell." It is the first in a series of five books, which will begin before the Hunger Games and close after their finish. I have tried to remain as canonical to the book series as possible. Almost all the characters featured in this series are my own, yet there are some cameos from characters from the original series who were alive and around to see the events fifty years prior to the events of Suzanne's trilogy. I've actually completed Book 1 of this series on another site and decided to post it here on Archive. Over there, it was a choose your own adventure style story with branching choices, so all of the choices for the first book are already finished, but they will resume after I have posted the entirety of Book 1 on this site. It appears I only have 88 characters left, so I will put the actual summary in its own chapter.





	1. The Events of Tomorrow

Every street in this wonderful city was painted white like marble. Every tree bore the golden leaves of a better life. The faces of every person he passed were jolly and smiling, but all of it was a lie. He knew those faces were actually masks hiding their fear. The leaves were merely plastic and cheap knock-offs of the authentic. Under those paints that coated the Capitol was the agony of the citizens who were too afraid to speak up.

The tea tasted faintly of olives and the color of early autumn. It was a difficult taste to describe, but it was one that Theo had grown accustomed to through his forty years of life. In the Capitol, drink flowed like water. You could almost pluck food off of any tree you passed by on the street. Theo despised it.

Theoram Warrik was a simple man, or that’s how he appeared. He didn’t fall into the chasm of debt that those unnatural body modifications provided. He never wore extravagant makeup like the majority of his peers. He was born with a limp in his left leg and a weak eye that he hid behind a thick glass. From the perspective of the average Capitol citizen, Theo wasn’t even worth talking to, and he liked to keep it that way. He didn’t much enjoy that petty small talk of the Capitol folk, nor about sports, nor the latest fashion or technology. Theo only cared about the Games.

The day it all started was in January. The place where Theo had taken a seat that afternoon was one he had become very close to: a small coffee shop just outside the condo he called his summer home. It was the only one that served his favorite brand of tea: Winkberry Brew. It was the name of the restaurant and a genetically modified fruit that they served with their entrees. Though Theo adamantly opposed most things that defied mother nature, he couldn't say it didn’t take the edge off of a bad day.

It was a lovely shop. There were several lamps on the wall that, in the evening, would glow a radiant blue. The tables placed out evenly on the patio in front of the store were made of aluminum wire and were painted black and white, the colors of the nation of Panem in which they lived. There was a likely rumor that before the war, there were hundreds of nations with completely separate governments, all coexisting with one another. Now, with most of the planet ravaged with nuclear waste and disease, there was only one: Panem, and the twelve districts it contained.

He watched as the men and women around him gallivanted through the streets of their beloved city, laughing and chattering about things that didn’t matter. It pained Theo to know that he was one of them.

“Theo...” He heard a familiar voice ringing from behind him. He gazed from his tea for a moment to find it was the man he had spent the better part of his life with. Though they had been raised on vastly different paths, Roman Walsh was Theo’s best friend. He wasn’t at all surprised to see him there, as they had met at Winkberry Brew weekly for as long as he could remember. “Theo, you got the job.”

Theo spun around to see the man beaming back at him with the same disbelief he held. He stood at just under four feet, and so Theo didn’t have to stand to meet him at eye level. “You're joking…”

Roman took a seat on the iron wire chair across from his friend. “How many years have you known me, dear friend? Enough to know that I never joke.”

Roman’s response confirmed his every hope. Theo had passed the exam and he was now a seat on the panel of Gamemakers. He would finally sit with judges and help forge the arena. He had worked his entire life to become a Gamemaker for The Hunger Games, and had fallen short every single time until now. Most people pursued the position for selfish power, or for the pay, or sometimes even for the thrill of it; Theo needed it because he had seen the suffering of those outside the great marble walls surrounding the Capitol. He was going to end it, and he was more than determined to. Ever since the Dark Days drew to a close in his adolescence and the President of Panem instated the Hunger Games, Theo knew he had to be the one to put them to an end.

Roman was a man of peculiar taste. It was part of the reason the two had maintained their friendship for as long as they had. Most Capitol folk enjoyed vibrant face paint and exotic clothes. Roman preferred drab ones. Most liked violent music that would make their ears bleed, but when Roman listened to his music, it was always old romantic styles like classical orchestra and jazz. Some people didn’t even recognize what those things were anymore.

His brown hair was awfully shaggy, yet still well kept, and hung below his ears. His beard was neatly trimmed and formed a perfect ring from under his nose to beneath his chin. But his most striking feature was his height. In a world with genetic modifications for sale over the counter in local drug stores, it was strange to find someone of his stature anymore. Plastic surgery had developed so far that one could virtually decide their physical appearance, yet Roman was still hobbling under four feet tall. He enjoyed it though—most likely for the same reason Theo enjoyed his monocle. It separated them from the others. They were unique.  
“How does it feel to be a new Gamemaker?” Roman asked, running a hand through his slicked-back hair.

“That's funny...” Theo chuckled lightly. “You’ve been the Head of Gamemaking Department for three years... You’re asking me how it feels?”

“Yeah, well I thought I would spare you. You’ve been mumbling about this under your breath for years. We’re on equal ground once again. It’s just like the old days again,” he smiled for a moment, but realized Theo’s silence and continued. “Right, Theo? Just like before the Games!”  
“Before the Games was worse. We were never on equal ground,” Theo shook his head. “Your father was Secretary of Defense. You got where you are because of him.”

“Bah!” Roman laughed, a wide grin stretching from ear to ear. “I achieved my position because of my wonderful imagination! Tell me you’ve seen one of my arenas that failed to please an audience and I wouldn’t believe you. And besides, if I rose to power based on higher men than I, how the hell did you become a Gamemaker yourself?” Theo glowered his way, but after a few moments’ hostile silence, the corner of his mouth turned upward and became a smile. Both men began to laugh all their breath into the hazy winter air. 

“It’s good on equal ground, good friend,” Theo said. Their friendship was odd for residing in the Capitol. Both were highly intelligent, perhaps too much so for their own good. They shared countless moments of untrue argument leading outsiders to believe they were enemies. This was not true. There was no one in Panem that Theo trusted more.

Roman waved a hand toward the tea sitting beneath Theo’s chin. He responded with a nod and handed the cup to his friend. He took a long sip and asked, “Do you remember last year’s Games?”

“Yes. I believe it was a desert ecosystem. What about it?”

“Well, as the time draws near to decide on this year’s arena, I’ve discovered I run out of ideas.”

“You don’t run out of ideas.” Theo shook his head to call his bluff. “You’re Roman Walsh, Head Gamemaker of Panem. You used to line your notebooks with ideas for arenas during university, and I know you couldn’t burn through all of them in a hundred lifetimes. It would be like if President Snow himself ever stood for re-election.”

All of this conversation about the Games seemed rather revolting to Theo. They were discussing where and how to throw twenty-four children into a pit to die. He only had to continue reminding himself of his goal. If he fell from this new position, there would be no other way. It felt rather ironic, having to act in a terrible way in order to do something he knew was right.  
“Careful how you speak of Coriolanus,” Roman shook his head and stared down into the steaming drink below him. “He doesn’t take kindly to foul words.”

“You’re on a first name basis with the president?” Theo raised an eyebrow.

“Well...” he sighed. “He’s on a first name basis with me. Just between you and I, for someone with as large a vocabulary as he has, I’d be surprised if ‘respect’ could be found in it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Theo spotted some younger citizens walking by: two women with eyelashes as long as wings flailing in the breeze. One of them picked up a hint of the conversation and shook her head, but then passed it off as nothing and continued on her way. This was what Theo despised about the Capitol. Everyone was cold at the heart, never having sentiment for anyone but themselves.

Theo breathed, watching the mist evaporate into the cool atmosphere around him. “I suggest we discuss such things in a more secluded area.”

“Ah! Secluded area! Speaking of which, I was pondering what this year’s biome will be, and I can't help but think that the vast openness of the desert doesn’t provide much opportunity for stealth. The tributes could see each other from a mile away.”  
“Yes... Most of the tributes died within the first night.”

“And, with my wonderful imagination, I had the idea that I would let you decide for this year, Gamemaker Warrik.”

“Are you sure?” The words hit him like ton of bricks in the chest. He was only hoping to sit on the panel. He would have never dreamed to have such a large role in the creation of the Games. This was his chance...

“I’m clear as day,” Roman smiled. “You’re just starting, and I believe you're aware of the concept of beginner’s luck? Just don’t pick a desert...”

“Well, I was thinking a jungle might be a good setting,” Theo said, scratching his chin. “If you want stealth, nothing provides a better blanket of cover than a tropical rainforest. You couldn’t even see the sky.”

Roman nodded his head. “A jungle, you say? Well, it's a bit overused, but I love the way you’re thinking. Something just as suspenseful to the audience as it is eerie to the tribute…”

Roman was a very humble and encouraging man, making him a pleasant one to be around. Theo liked to describe himself this way too, but no matter—he was always the more solemn of the two. Roman was only a few years older than him, and Theo found it amusing that he looked up to such a short man. 

“So, a jungle it will be?”

“A jungle it would be. If it were last year... Or if it were next year...” He stared down into the auburn tea below him and took a sip, warming himself through the chill of January. “What makes this year different, Theo?”

He hadn’t a clue. “I don't know. What is it?”

“This year is the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, and to celebrate the roundness of that number, President Snow has told me personally that this year’s Games are going to be something extraordinary—the best by likes no one has ever seen.”

“And how are we going to accomplish that?”

Roman chuckled. “By adding a bit of secret ingredient to our arena—our own little tang... Congrats, Theo. You are now effectively one of six people in Panem who know about this.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Five, if you don’t want to get us both arrested.”

“They would arrest us for my knowledge that the Games are going to be special this year?" Theo raised an eyebrow. “You’re the Head of Gamemaking Department. They can’t do that to you.”

Roman sighed. “You would be surprised how many things are kept secret in the Capitol. I think that’s how Snow gets his kicks—by keeping things from other people. It’s a very hard thing to work my mind around, being a completely honest man.”

They laughed. There were many things that Roman was, but honest was not one of them. It was part of how he rose so high on the corporate ladder. “So... It won’t be a jungle?”

Roman contemplated it for a moment, then reached into his pocket and grabbed out of it a small silver coin. It was the dollar coin of Panem, completely like any other. He reached into his breast pocket and found a sewing needle there. He quickly held both items between them, the coin just above the needle in perfect alignment. “Tell me, Theo, which way will the coin fall when it hits the pin?”

“Hm?”

“When I drop this dollar, will it fall to my left or to my right?” He paused for a moment, showing clear delight in Theo’s confusion. “Or perhaps it will fall towards you... or even towards me. Which way?”

“Um... To the left.”

Roman released his grip on the coin, and he couldn't believe his own eyes. The coin landed perfectly in the center, letting it sit on the head of the pin as if it were the flat surface of a table. It stayed there until Roman let go of them and let both objects fall into his hand. “That was unexpected, was it not?”

“How...?”

“When you are forging that arena—when you call yourself a Gamemaker—you have to think of things in a different light. You have to look at something, know that someone else would think about it one way, and then think about it a different way yourself.”

“I don’t-”

“The coin was a magnet and a gyroscope. I bought it at a joke shop, but it proves my point,” he continued, “which is this... Be unexpected, Theo. This world likes it.”

“It’s interesting advice,” Theo told him, honestly. “Although, if I’m not wrong, the world likes things the normal way, without change. It’s why they look down on people like us.”

“Ah, but do they look down on us?” Roman retorted. “Last time I checked, we were Gamemakers, and they weren’t.” Theo realized the truth of what his friend said. There weren’t many differences between the both of them, but the one big one was that Theo was a pessimist while Roman showed outstanding optimism.

“What has been your favorite arena to date?” he asked. “Which one stuck out to you the most?”

Theo searched his memory for a second, but the answer was clear to him. “The one a couple years back with the aired-out marine trench. That one was great since one wrong move could lead to a fall to death.”

“Precisely!” He brought his hands together with his index fingers pointed at the sky. “That one was the best one to date. It had little ocean huts jutting out the side of the cliff sides and jellyfish mutts that floated through the chasm. But the best part... The best part was that no one knew what the hell they were doing. Who’s ever been in an underwater trench before?”

“I see what you’re saying now.”

“Oh, this arena will be a jungle of sorts... But that would be a light way of putting it.” He looked down into the piping tea and took the last sip from it, appreciating one more bit of wooden flavor. “This year will be so much more than that. This year will be grand.”

“So what will it be?” he asked his friend.

Roman peered back up and didn't answer. He had confidence in what he was doing. It was a notion Theo often strived for, yet many times, fell short of. It was one that Roman nailed every time. He stood from his chair and dusted off the underside of his pants, making them as tidy as possible. “Unexpected, my friend... Unexpected. Just like the fact  
that I must leave now. Sorry we haven't had much time this week, but I’ve been called to a council meeting.”

Theo managed a chuckle, finally accepting the fact that it was not his place to know yet, even though he had provided the basic template for the arena. “So, I’ll meet you here at this same time next week then?”

He shook his head and slowly edged away from the patio of Winkberry Brew. “I would very much like that to be so, but no. You won’t see me for a long time. I am going on a trip to scope out new territory for this new arena. So, goodbye, and... May the odds be ever in your favor.”

Theo smiled and waved as Roman turned to leave. After he rounded the corner and passed out of sight, Theo himself decided it was time to leave. There wasn’t much use in taking the part of the lonely old man at the tea shop. He stood and reached for his mahogany cane, yet didn’t find it in time and lost his balance. His hand landed on the table  
and the teacup that had rested on it toppled to the ground and shattered into fragments. An employee named Marigold from the restaurant was swiftly present to collect the pieces of broken china. 

“Did you have a stumble, sir?” she asked, condescendingly. “Would you like me to help you?”

“No, I’ve got it.” Theo replied, placing his wooden cane beneath the weight of his body. He refused Marigold’s outstretched hand toward him and began down the street in the opposite direction Roman left. It was a relieving feeling, to sit down. He almost forgot it was his struggle to move anywhere, and an even more difficult one to evade people’s  
glares of mild disdain. Perhaps they didn’t look down on Roman for being a dwarf, but that was the extent of his abnormality. Theo’s bad leg and eye always seemed to make him a target.

He wondered if it would ever be any different. Maybe there would come a day when he could walk upright and pass amongst the residents of the Capitol freely without scrutiny, but it was not today; and it wasn’t tomorrow. Though, Theo knew tomorrow would be different in a way. Only it would be different for other reasons…


	2. The Family Legacy

“Are you, Are you  
Coming to the tree  
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three  
Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

“Are you, Are you  
Coming to the tree  
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee  
Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

“Are you, Are you  
Coming to the tree  
Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free  
Strange things did happen here  
No stranger would it be  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

“Are you, Are you  
Coming to the tree  
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.  
Strange things did happen here,  
No stranger would it be,  
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.”

Aura set her guitar down by her chair. She was done singing, having just concluded the last verse of her song. It was among her favorites, and one that her two younger brothers asked for many nights before bed. She would gladly accept the request. She often wondered why they wanted so badly to hear about such a dark concept, but Corvin and  
Barker were still too young to listen for anything more than melody. She wished she could be so naïve.

Her story was a simple one. She was born into a life of luxury—at least in comparison to the rest of the families in District Seven. All her life, she had expectations of grandeur pushed on her, by both her mother and father, until birthing her youngest brother proved too much for Mom. She received much scorn from her peers for being a snotty brat,  
but in truth, she was farthest from. Although, she didn't force herself into the idea of being innocent and sweet either. The only thing she could say with precise certainty about herself was that she was, in fact, Aura Cantarella.

“Are you coming to the tree? Where they strung up a man... They said he murdered three...” started Barker, the five-year-old. That wasn't exactly how the song went, but with something about the way the boy's golden-blonde hair bounced up and down jovially when he said it, Aura couldn't help but forgive him.

“That's not how the song goes,” Corvin scolded him. He had the same shade of hair, and was but three years older. “She just sang it. Don't you remember?”

“Corvin, lay off him,” she said. “Want to see something else cool, guys?”

“Yeah,” they chimed in unison.

Aura fingered through her leather pack by her feet and retrieved a loaf of bread. The boys' faces became bright as their eyes fell on it—it was banana bread. It was their favorite, just like anyone else with the last name Cantarella. “Where did you get this, sis?” Corvin asked, struggling to hold his excitement.

“Bought it in the market earlier today,” Aura smiled. It was a lie, but she wasn't going to reveal to them what they need not know.

“Can we eat it now?” Barker asked enthusiastically.

Aura laughed. “Banana bread? At ten o'clock in the evening? No, you can have it in the morning for breakfast. Speaking of which, I think this is late enough for the two of you,” she stood up from her chair took them lovingly by the collars to the bedroom they shared.

“Can you sing us one more song?” Barker asked, pointing at Aura’s guitar on the table. “Sometimes I get nightmares.”

Aura looked around her at the house they had been given. It was structurally sound, unlike many other homes in District Seven. It was granted to their father after he won the Games all those years ago. She had been born and raised within these walls, and never once did she take them for granted like the rest of her family seemed to.

She squatted down to meet her baby brother. “Now, listen, buddy—there's a reason I only sing you one a night. What do you think causes the nightmares?”

“The monsters in my room...” he replied shakily.

She shook her head and pounded her hand against the wall, proving how sturdy it was. “There aren't any monsters in your room. All the monsters are out there, behind the walls.”

But at that moment, the front door slid open and her father, Rowan Cantarella, strode into the home looking just as drunk as he did every other night. He clumsily withdrew one of the chairs from the kitchen table and plunged into it, almost shattering his bottle of whiskey on the way down.

“In there, you're safe,” Aura continued, trying to ignore Dad for a moment. “Now, go in. Turn the lights out. Go to sleep. You'll be fine.”

Barker turned around and obeyed, but his brother lagged behind. “But what about-”

“I'll deal with this. Just go to bed. Get some rest,” Aura commanded him. He let out a brief sigh, closing the door to the boys' room behind him.

“Deal with this?” Rowan quoted, setting the bottle of smelly alcohol down. “God, Aura, I'm your father, not some solicitor trash...”

“What are you doing?” Aura glared angrily at him, standing firmly beside the hallway. He didn't answer. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

“This is my home, girl,” he sneered. “I got every right to sit down in this chair. In fact, I got more right than you. I won this house, not you. I'm the reason we aren't out on the street right this very moment, fending for ourselves.”

“Don't pull that ‘I'm a victor’ shit. I don't want to hear it,” she steamed. “You stay out and do one-night stands on most nights, and on the others, you limp home piss drunk and sell me the same story about how you do all of it for the family. I want you to walk straight into your sons’ room and tell them exactly what you told me.”

He looked up with his yellowed eyes, enraged. "I am your father, Aura, and I deserve your respect. And both of us know I can hold my damn liquor."

She stormed into a seat across from her father, stealing away the bottle of whiskey before Rowan could take another sip. "Oh, you deserve something, but it definitely isn't respect."

"What's gotten into you today, girl? Why are you riding my ass?" he asked roughly, running a hand over his patchy gray beard. 

A tear fell from Aura's eye. She didn't mean for it to, but it did anyway. "Carla's mom was taken today."

His eyes became even wider than they already had been. "Carla? Damn... What happened?"

"They made her an avox, Dad..." She cried, turning away from him. They had taken the woman’s tongue so she couldn't speak out against the Capitol. Something like that made it hard not to cry.

"Well, I guess it's good I didn't take you out for training today," he said, and then burped loudly. "You're welcome."

"Why do you have to be like this?" she asked in distress, strands of disarrayed blonde hair hanging down in her face. "Why do you take me out training day after day? Is it fun to watching me throw knives at stumps until my arms feel like they're being put through a wood chipper? Is it fun to make me kill and cook rabbits all day? We don’t even eat  
them…"

He looked offended. "I do this for us, Aura... And to uphold our legacy. I won the Games. Your Uncle Crispin won the Games too. If your last name is Cantarella, winning the Games is your destiny. Winning is in your blood."

"Just like it was in Ava's blood, dad?"

His voice was shot dead with shock. After regaining relative composure, he replied, "Ava was a mistake. I didn't train her hard enough. I plan to fix that with you."

"Dad! Ava didn't just die in the games, she killed herself! Her 'winning blood' is still coating that boulder in the mountain arena. How can you tell me she was a mistake? The mistake was training her at all... Filling her mind with hopes of fulfilling a destiny that wasn't hers."

Rowan sighed in anger. "Dammit. Just shut up and listen to what I have to say." Aura crossed her arms reluctantly and sat back in her creaking seat. "I know I told you that you would volunteer on your eighteenth year, but I was just thinking today, what does that really accomplish? Volunteer this year. You're seventeen. They might judge you fairer if  
you're younger."

"You're not serious..." Aura gasped. "You're going to make me volunteer next week? You told me I had until I was eighteen!"

"Well, I changed my mind," he shook his head. "I was fifteen when I won my Games. You have an entire two-year advantage on me. And look at Crispin! He was the only twelve-year-old ever to win."

Aura rested her head in her palms on the table in front of her. She couldn't believe this. It had always been Rowan's plan to have his children volunteer, but this was taking it too far. "Dad, Crispin is insane. You can't be in the same room with him for more than a couple minutes without him starting to talk about knives and killing. Remember what  
happened to Corvin the last time you had him over?"

"Crispin is not the issue. You are,” he said. "You're going to volunteer next week."

"I'm not."

"You are. The moment they call someone else's name, you're going to shout at the top of your lungs and claim the place as your own. This is your destiny."

"No. It's not."

"Honey, why are you protesting so hard against bringing this family honor?" He looked down at the table in frustration, and his eyes fell on the loaf of banana bread she had placed there. The gears in his drunken mind turned faster than Aura would have thought. "Aura, where did you get that?"

"I... applied for rations earlier today..." She admitted. She wanted to think of a lie to tell him. But then again, the thought of how furious he would be was enough incentive to tell the truth. He looked confused, but then he knew exactly what happened. She had put in her name more times for the reaping for extra provisions. But with the man pushing  
her to volunteer so relentlessly the past few years, she couldn't help but want to be chosen by the Reaping, just to smite him.

"You... what?" he spoke quietly through his teeth.

"I went and applied for rations at the Peacekeeper's office this morning.”

Their eye contact didn't waiver as the man spoke. "I see. And how many extra times did you put your name into the Reaping?"

"One hundred and thirty," she lied. She had actually put her name in only thirty times, but she was so angry with her father that she couldn't resist making him angrier.

"Aura, you do understand that if you are chosen by the Reaping, all of this effort will become worthless, right? People can't name you a hero if you didn't ask to be one..."

"I understand," she stated plainly.

"You put your name into the reaping a hundred and thirty times... For a loaf of FUCKING BREAD?" He stood up and threw an empty glass from the table to the wall, tearing the lilac wallpaper. "That's gotta be a tenth of the entire bowl! What gives you the RIGHT to-"

"What gives you the right to gamble with my life?" Aura shot back quietly, remaining calmly in her seat. Her interruption caused Rowan to slump back into his seat. She saw her father's crazed eyes glance past her and she followed them to see Barker standing just outside his door, looking fearful. 

"Dad...?" He whimpered.

"Go back to bed, Barker," Aura and Rowan declared at the same time.

Once the boy had closed the door behind him, her father lowered her voice. 

"Fine, hon, you win. You don't have to volunteer. But two victors in the family is not going to cut it. No, we need three." He sighed, glancing back to the boys' room. "I guess I'll just have to train one of them."

"Don't you dare," Aura said back. "Those boys are too sweet to be ruined by a world like this. You're not going to take that away from them."

"No, you are," he said, standing up. In the gained silence, Rowan slid over to the other side of the table and ripped the glass of whiskey from Aura’s hand jerkily and made his way over to the front door. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, Aura stood up from the table as well.

"Wait, dad!" Aura called out just as the man opened the door into the chilly night. He paused and turned around to see what she had to say. Aura closed her eyes and sucked in her gut. "I volunteer as tribute..."

Rowan smiled. "There you go! The words aren't that hard to say. Just pray to God you say them fast enough next week."

"Is that a threat?" Aura frowned.

He closed the door and turned around, casually returning to the seat at the kitchen table. "I don't threaten my children, Aura."

"Right..." she pressed her fingers to her face. "You prematurely discipline them... Dad, you've been in the arena. Tell me what was so glorious about it that you want to get back so badly."

"The winnings, Aura," he replied easily. "The winnings are how this family survives. We're running low on rations from Crispin's win. The settlement is a lot, but it can't easily support a family of five."

"The winnings aren't worth it," Aura told him, lifting her head up. "If we have to, we should sell this house and live out on the street if it means not going in the arena."

"Well that's not going to happen." He stood up and stepped over shards of broken glass to the corner of the room, leaning on the wall where the wallpaper had ripped.

"You used to be a good man," Aura told him. "What the hell happened?"

"I'm not a bad man, honey..." He sighed. "You know why I do the things I do. I do them to support this family. With what happened to Ava... And your mother... It sometimes gets pretty hard to do just that, but know everything I do is in your interests."

"Is that why you're carting me off to die?" she shot back.

"Dammit, Aura!" He shouted, slamming his fist into the wall, making the whole house reverberate. "You're making this really difficult. I'm not sending you to die, I'm sending you to win."

Aura stood up from the table, gaining a slight height advantage on her father. "You and I both know there's no realistic chance that will happen."

"Not with that attitude," he said, shaking his finger. "No, we're going to train nonstop starting tomorrow. Get some rest, because we're going to be up at the crack of dawn." Aura danced around the table and brushed past her father's shoulder hard, not answering him. "Hey! I'm talking to you!" Aura put her hand on the doorknob of the front door and  
gave it a slight twist. Once it was open, she turned to give one last glance at her father before she left. "Where are you going?"

Tears began to leak steadily from her eyes. "...I hate you." She whispered. She got a small glimpse of his face just before she slammed the door on it. It wasn't one of anger or confusion, but genuine hurt. It might have been the first she'd ever seen on him since Ava died. She found she didn't care.

She strutted out into the evening, accompanied by a frosty chill and her thoughts. The Victor's Village was quiet at this time of night, even from Crispin’s house down the way. Generally, the ones who lived here were able to sleep at night, having authentic beds to lie on instead of cots and straw. The rest of District Seven didn't have that luxury.

The full moon shined brightly over Aura's home. Sometimes, she would gaze upon it, and become envious. It was so far away from the world she called home. It didn't have to deal with the pressure that it meant to be human. It didn't have to deal with The Hunger Games.


End file.
